Redemption
by Alliecallienip
Summary: Minerva McGonagall's world tumbles after being caught punishing herself with her father's wand. Through the help of her friends, however, she is saved--or is she? SEQUEL to PUNISHMENT


Authoress' Note: This is a sequel to my shorter fic Punishment. If you haven't read that first, please do! ...otherwisely, this may not make much sense. 

REDEMPTION 

She was aware of the slow, dull, constant throbbing behind her ears. Thick air surrounded her, pressing her heavily to the stiff, slightly rough sheets below her. Slowly her eyes cracked open, garish light creeping into her consciousness and sending a sharp pain ricocheting through her skull. An involuntary moan slipped from her lips. 

Madame Pomfrey was by her side in an instant, cool, soothing hands smoothing her patient's lusterless, dry hair behind her ear. "Minerva, darling," she whispered, her large, pale brown eyes filled with concern and pity. "No, no, don't try to sit up--you must be aching badly. Hagrid brought you in...you were burning up with fever. It's a miracle you're still alive." Her voice, usually so comforting and sure, was abnormally hoarse, filled to the brim with tearful disappointment. 

"My wand--" 

"Here. And your father's. Don't think you'll be getting either back any time soon." A hard tone edged into her voice. 

The Professor sank back wearily into the stiff pillow. "Poppy--" she began, her eyes shutting tightly. 

"Don't make excuses, Minerva. I just want to know--tell me, please, darling--why?" The last word was spoken in a desperate cry; softly; thick with tears.   
  
"...why?" McGonagall echoed faintly. 

Madame Pomfrey reached out abruptly to rip down McGonagall's sheets, exposing her pale, naked body. "My God, Minerva," she rasped, horror in her voice as she stared at the numerous scars criss-crossing every which way down the Professor's ashen flesh. "My God..." 

McGonagall fumbled embarrassedly with the sheets, pulling them up to her chin. "Poppy, please," she mumbled, already reciting what was now a well-rehearsed speech. "I fell; I'm clumsy--" 

"Shut up!" The nurse's voice was shrill with fear, shocking McGonagall into silence. "Those scars--that's not being clumsy, 'Erva. That's being hurt. Did your Daddy do that to you?" 

"My--Papa--?" Professor McGonagall faltered. 

"Yes, your beloved father!" She sounded nearly infuriated, upset at both herself for not realising it sooner and Minerva for not confessing it. "I remember how you were so frightened of him--I thought at the time it was normal childhood respect--Minerva, he terrorized you!" 

"He was punishing me!" The words spilled unbidden from her lips. "I deserved it. I deserved everything. He never punished me without a reason." Her eyes shut painfully, tears aching at behind her lids, but she held them at bay from years of practice. 

Poppy stood, dumbstruck. "You--you think you deserved that?" she asked in an incredulous, horrified whisper. 

McGonagall struggled to rest up on her elbows to look at her friend, ignoring the pain that intensified where ever pressure on her skin was applied. "Poppy, Poppy, listen to me." Her voice rasped agonizingly. "I lied. I lied to Timothy. ...about you and Severus. I couldn't go unpunished..." 

"'Erva!" 

"I had to teach myself. Stop being bad....I was a bad girl, Poppy. A very bad girl. Papa's good girls never lie..." The nurse listened with horror as her best friend seemed to drift off into a vaguely dreamy state. 

"Minerva!" But even Madame Pomfrey's shrill call couldn't rouse the Professor. 

"Papa always had...has me punish myself...you learn more that way..." muttered she, her eyes dropping shut as she sank back weakly onto the pillow. "That'll teach you...teach you to disobey...disappoint me...let me down..." 

~*~*~*~ 

She sits quietly, the black veil draped over her young face, effectively giving her the correct air of mourning. Her feet swing slowly under the pew, her dry eyes fixed steadily at the closed coffin at the front of the church. Black gloved hands are folded obediently in her lap, her narrow shoulders set and proud. Her father's voice rings in all corners of the beautiful sanctuary, so strong that even the churchmice stop to listen. 

Little Minerva hides a small smile behind her outward solemn expression. She can feel the pull of her hair in a tight but behind her and the weight of thin wire spectacles on her nose. She feels very grown-up and proud of herself for making her Papa proud. And she's proud of her Papa, standing up there on that podium and telling everyone how Mama died. 

Mama was weak and bad. She was always mean and hurtful. Funny...Minerva doesn't remember her Mama like that at all. But Papa doesn't lie, so it must be true. What kind of bad Mama leaves a little girl and a grieving father all alone, just because her baby died? Minerva considers her dead baby sister for a brief moment. It was best, she supposes; after all, her Papa wouldn't be able to care for such a tiny baby with Mama so sick. Not sick like a cold, or the flu; this sick meant her Mama had to stay in bed for hours, abandoning her family, while she cried. 

Come to think of it, she'd never much cared for her mother. It was, she decides, better for all concerned that poor Miriam McGonagall slashed her wrists when she did. It's only a pity she didn't do it sooner. 

~*~*~*~ 

Low, urgent voices slowly dragged McGonagall to consciousness again. Lying very still and keeping her eyes closed, she forced herself to listen to and identify the speakers. One, familiar and comforting, but nearly frantic with concern; the other, calm and soothing and just as familiar, worried but not frenzied. 

"Albus, scars cover every inch of her! It's not righ-" 

"My dear Poppy, please, I do realise the urgency of this situation-" 

"I don't think you do! She nearly killed herself this time; who knows what might happen if allowed to go on-" 

"But she's still alive, thanks to your expertise in your field, and I thank you deeply, as I'm sure she doe-" 

"I can't keep her here!" 

A slight pause. "But you must! Where else do you propose she go?" 

Another pause, longer. "St. Mungo's. Somewhere. Anywhere. We can't keep her he-" 

"But why not?" 

"The students! They'll grow suspicious-" 

"We'll tell them she's sick-" 

"She IS sick! My GOD, Albus, LOOK AT HER!" 

McGonagall did feel sick as she became aware of Dumbledore's pensive, Pomfrey's frightened, gaze upon her. Slowly she cracked her eyelids open to stare blearily into the faces of her mentor and friend. "Hello," she croaked, not knowing what else to say. 

"Hello, my darling Minerva." Albus, always smooth, always in control. He leaned over to pat her hand gently, and she flinched back, his cool skin freezing against her own once-ivory flesh, now red and chapped and hot. He noticed her discomfort and hid a frown, stepping closer to sit on the side of the bed. "Minerva, it has come to my attention that you find it necessary to punish yourself for wrongdoings, much like an abusive parent punishes his chil-" 

"Oh, come off it, Albus!" Poppy broke in, uncharacteristically rude and upset. She sat on the other side of McGonagall, taking her other hand and gently stroking the back of it with her thumb. Small circles. Her worried brown eyes stared hesitantly into McGonagall's steely grey. "'Erva, you're sick...I can't treat you here." A broken pause. "I'm not sure if I can treat you at all..." 

"Nonsense, my dears!" Dumbledore seized hold of the weak conversation and held it firmly. "With a little rest and talk I'm sure she'll be just fine." 

"I'm really fine the way I am..." But McGonagall's feeble objections went nearly unnoticed. 

"Sweetie, I know your father made you hurt yourself when you got into mischief, but this is carrying it a bit far. You could have been kill-" 

"Now, I know you feel that you need to enforce good habits and wean away from bad ones, but when a simple slap on the wrist becomes something as highly destructive as this-" 

"'Erva, do you hear me? You could've been killed! Applying such a strong charm was foolish; you knew that! What on earth possessed you to-" 

"And all this over a simple fib. Poppy's told me the extent of it; I feel you did what was appropriate under the circumstances-" 

"-St. Mungo's will know what to do. I don't have the training to try to cure something of this nature-" 

"-I'm quite sure that with a few cups of tea and a nice long talk we'll have this whole thing straightened-" 

"-never had to deal with anything like this before; I don't know what to do!" 

"-just a misunderstanding on your part; nothing serious, I'm su-" 

"-completely at my wit's end--and from YOU-" 

"-of all people, my dear Profes-" 

"-never suspected-" 

"-never expected-" 

"-never said anythi-" 

"-no clues, no hints-" 

"-no idea-" 

"-no idea-" 

"If only you'd said something!" Both said in a rush. 

They paused in their torrent of words to study the recipient. With every word she had retreated further and further into despair, her eyes widening with misery and her slender, chapped fingers curled into wretched fists. Professor McGonagall, the strong, proper woman was reduced to Minerva: a huddling form hiding under the covers, trembling at the gentle criticism. Her voice, shaking, weak, and already weary: "Please..." 

Both, perhaps with a touch rougher than intended. "What now?" 

Tears materialized as if by magic in Minerva's eyes; a hard, glittering line of silver. She drew in a deep, ragged breath as if to speak. 

Pomfrey and Dumbledore tensed, waiting for the inevitable. The impenetrable Professor McGonagall was breaking down before their eyes. "I..." Her voice, so weak, shaking so violently. Those sad fingers twisting into and out of fists constantly, trembling. Grey eyes watery and bleary, teardrops clinging to the tips of her pale lashes. She swallowed hard and turned away, her dry, damaged hair falling to shield even her profile from view. 

Harsh, tense silence. 

Then a few slow breaths from that of the victim, and she turned again, her face now dry of tears and completely in control. Her hands rests quietly beneath the light blanket, the sheet drawn properly up to her neck. "Poppy, please, my clothing." 

The nurse started, then obediently slipped away, returning a few moments later with clean, familiar green robes, undergarments tucked surreptitiously underneath the folded cloth. 

McGonagall drew the material to her face and inhaled, burying her face in the emerald robes. "A few moments, if you would," she requested , fixing her Headmaster with a pointed stare, no hint of tears. Dumbledore gave a little bow and turned, Poppy turning as well, her hands clasped behind her back and squeezing her eyes shut. 

Rustling cloth, and when they turned again, McGonagall sat primly on the side of the bed in her usual robes, spectacles resting firmly on her nose. Her hair, however, still fell to her waist--she gave an irritated sigh, feeling in the pockets of her robes. "Poppy, please, my wand." Her voice betrayed the annoyance she felt. 

Dumbledore and Pomfrey exchanged frowns. 

"Ah, Minerva, my dear," he began, his expression very tolerant. "It doesn't appear wise to allow you a wand at this point in time--" 

"Oh, do come off it, Albus. Give me my wand." snapped she, her eyes flashing. She rose from the bed, dragging her fingers through her ruined hair in a feeble attempt to comb it. "And my father's. It belongs to me." 

"'Erva, darling, how do we know you won't hurt yourself again?" Madame Pomfrey added hesitantly, reaching for McGonagall's hand. She pulled it away. 

"My wand!" she ordered angrily, throwing her shoulders back and glaring at the two. "I am a full-grown witch, Albus; Poppy. I am perfectly capable of taking care of mysel-" 

"But you're NOT!" poor Poppy shrieked, clutching for Minerva's hand. McGonagall again pulled it away, Pomfrey's own cool skin distinctly uncomfortable against her flushed own. 

Albus attempted to intervene. "There, now, Poppy, all she needs is a good talk. It's obvious she's seen the error of her ways..." 

Minerva took a few steps, but they were painful and slow. She seemed quite contemplative for a few moments, then replies calmly, "Yes, indeed, Albus. I quite understand. I understand everything clearly, now." 

"You understand, then, that there's no need to punish yourself for your wrongs? Your father, God rest his soul, is dead. Simply because he forced you to abuse yourself as a child doesn't mean that this behaviour needs to continue in your adulthood, now that you're free from him." 

Minerva shivered mentally. Such lies. Such untruth. Her father carved her into a strong woman; that was all. And it wasn't as if he owned her. He was her mentor. 

"Can you say it, Miss McGonagall?" Dear Dumbledore, always so kind and polite. Always so caring. Poor thing, he did try, so hard. But he didn't understand; just couldn't comprehend what was truly needed. She supposed she'd play along, for now at least. Until she was allowed back her father's wand. 

Madame Pomfrey held her breath. 

"Yes, Headmaster," replied she, offering a slightly frozen, gentle smile. A slight pause as she prepared the lines written for her. "There's no need for me to punish myself for my wrongs. My father is dead. He forced me to abuse myself as a child." Mentally she took note of the lies, calmly adding them to everything else she had done wrong in her short time in the infirmary. 

Dumbledore and Pomfrey studied Minerva's face carefully. The Professor certainly appeared sincere. 

"Oh, and Albus, Poppy...I'd appreciate it if this didn't get out. Not even to Severus, Poppy," she added with a slight smile. 

Frigid silence. "Minerva..." Albus replied gravely. "The staff has a right to know why you'll not be teaching for a few weeks." 

McGonagall's head jerked up sharply. "WHAT?" she cried, her voice cracking. "Not teach? What are you babbling about, Albus? Of course I'll teach." 

"No." He was very firm. "How can you teach without a wand, my dear?" 

Speechless. "Without-- wand--how COULD you!" she shrieked, her eyebrows shot up and her hands in tight fists at her side. "I--give me my wand!" 

Poor Madame Pomfrey turned ashen at her best friend's hysterics and whirled abruptly, slipping away through the open clinic door. No doubt to flee into Severus' arms. But it seemed to give her the excuse to snap even further. 

"Now, Minerva, be reasonable--" 

"REASONABLE?" she screamed, her voice rasping horribly. "I, Albus, am a full-grown WITCH! Deprive me of my wand and--" And she stopped abruptly. A deep, calming breath. "All right. Fine. I understand." She shivered slightly. "I quite understand," she repeated softly, her voice dead of emotion. 

The Headmaster twirled his beard between his fingers. "Wonderful. Take this--" he gestured to a rather large tube of silvery gel "--and rub it over all your skin once after you wake, once before you sleep. It's a burn-cream for magical ailments. We'll see to your mental health later, perhaps tomorrow, over a nice steaming mug of tea, won't we?" He smiled, genuinely pleased with her new submissive attitude. 

The Professor took the ointment in her hands and studied the tube absently, nodding quietly. "As you wish, Albus," she murmurs, practically itching to get her hands on her wand once more. 

"Good!" Dumbledore smiled in satisfaction, rubbing his hands together. "Well, then! I'll see you --" 

"My father's wand," she said suddenly. 

He frowned, stroking his beard as if it were a living animal. "What about it?" he replied carefully. 

"I'd like to see it." she said softly, a guilty look in her stormy grey eyes. "Just to make sure...it's the only thing I inherited from him, you know. The rest burned in the fire." 

Albus frowned lightly, still stroking at his chin. "Hmm...that seems reasonable, Professor." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a familiar wand. At the sight, she uttered a half-cry of longing that he caught, and gave her a slight warning glance. Her hands, wringing themselves at her waist, fell silently to her sides. 

"It's well, Minerva," Albus said quietly, and she nodded her stiff approval. 

"...thank you, Headmaster." A long pause between them as twinkling, concerned blue eyes met stoic, stormy grey. Neither seemed willing to give in, though it wasn't clear what, exactly, they would be losing. Finally Dumbledore looked away, towards the slender bed, and said quietly, 

"Perhaps you should return to your quarters and rest for a bit. I'll see you at dinner?" 

Another pregnant pause, and then Minerva nodded slowly. Dumbledore turned to go, to follow Minerva out, but she didn't move. He stopped, uncomfortable, as it appeared she had something else to say. 

"Dumbledore..." 

"Yes?" 

She fingered the straw-like hair that fell nearly to her waist, ignoring the slight pain in her reddened fingertips. "I'd like to be able to put my hair up." 

He paused. "Muggles do it," he said gently, and tried not to see the way her shoulders stooped somewhat. She turned and left without another word, though he was sure he heard a soft, murmuring cry catch in her throat. 

For the next three weeks Minerva left her room exactly five times a day. Breakfast, which she barely ate; then met Dumbledore for a 'session' from ten 'til eleven. Then lunch, hardly touched; another session from three to four, and finally supper, which was eaten properly. 

The red, chapped look faded from her skin, leaving her as alabaster as before. Her hair never regained its previous luster, but the brittleness eventually disappeared. Still, her hair was bound very loosely and weakly and had to be redone several times a day as Minerva was left only with the weak, unfocused power in her hands alone. Pale smiles again began to creep to her lips, and her silence was broken by brief, casual conversations with staff and students alike. 

The delicate, fragile look about her left her as well, and soon Albus proclaimed her cured. With great ceremony he presented her with both wands, and she responded to him with more warmth than she had in years. Yes, everyone began to reassure themselves, Minerva was back, including her stern bun, hidden compassion, and fierce temper. Classes began again almost seamlessly, though she did have to re-teach almost everything the bumbling substitute had covered already. 

Everybody relaxed, except Minerva. The growing weight of her lies and masquerades was crushing her spirit, and though she forced herself to laugh and smile and teach, she grew more and more miserable. Something had to be done soon, she knew. Penance would be paid that would last a lifetime.   



End file.
